


Someone Who Can Make You Whole

by afteriwake



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Big Bang Challenge, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-07 02:50:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1114599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afteriwake/pseuds/afteriwake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes has visited Molly Hooper's home on three different occasions in the five years they have known each other. Each visit has gone differently, starting with Sherlock becoming Molly's first lover, and then the two of them continuing their dance where they pretend it didn't happen, and finally the two of them having the conversation they should have had years before. This is the story of Sherlock's journey to be a better man towards her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was my last minute fic to post for **journeystory** when my other story got eaten by a rotten flash drive. I was planning on doing another ship for this **imagineyourotp** prompt, but I decided to do Sherlock/Molly instead because that seems to be all I'm writing lately. The prompt was “Imagine your OTP getting very very drunk and having sex for the first time, before becoming a couple - both enjoying it, but feeling immensely awkward about it as soon as they realize what happened, and both deciding to pretend - and convincing one another - that they blacked out and forgot the incident. Now imagine them finally getting together after many failed and semi-failed relationships with others, when one night Person A whispers to Person B, 'You know, I was always glad you were my first.'" Title comes from lyrics in “Save Yourself” by Stabbing Westward.
> 
>  **EDIT:** And I finally found the art for this story, made by the ever lovely **nickygabriel** at Livejournal. Here it is

It had been once. One time where he had let his guard down after a case. He was generally the one who had a wall around his heart, who could compartmentalize between the violent deaths he saw and what he needed to do to solve the case. But one case had gotten to him, and he had let his guard down and something had happened, something he hadn't expected. It wasn't that he hadn't enjoyed it, but he preferred not to think about it because _she_ preferred not to think about it. It was easier that way.

Molly was new to the whole equation when the case happened. He hadn't gotten on well with the last pathologist, who demanded an explanation for everything he did, every experiment he wanted to run. It had been tiresome and irritating, and his inevitable reaction to things that were tiresome and irritating had made things _that_ much harder. So it had been a relief, in a way, when Molly took over. She was competent, she did work that helped his cases, but more than that she nursed a crush and that allowed him to manipulate her more. He knew that was what he was doing, and he was fairly sure she knew it too, but any attention from him seemed to make her more amenable, even if it ended with his indifference.

She'd been there three months when the bodies came in. A sadistic serial killer with a penchant for mutilating young boys had struck London, and the populace was on edge. Lestrade was getting it from all sides to catch the killer, and it seemed as there was a new victim or two every week. Sherlock had seen much in his time as a consulting detective, but even this made him ill. He was thankful he was able to catch the man within two weeks, but that was two weeks too late as far as he was concerned. There had been seven victims total in his killing spree over the three weeks until he was caught. He had only needed to see the last three in person, but that had been more than enough. He had gone to St. Bart's after another sleepless night to clear his head, to work on other experiments to try and get the images out of his head. He spent hours in his lab, trying his best not to think about the mutilated boys. He ignored everything until he heard a knock on his door. “Yes?” he asked, not looking up.

“I thought you could use something to eat,” he heard Molly say after she opened the door. He gave her a quick glance and saw she was dressed to go home, carrying a plate covered in foil. She was also carrying a cup. “They say you work for hours at a time and don't eat. I figure if you're trying to forget and you're going to work through the night you should have coffee and food.”

“Set it over there,” he said, pointing to an empty space on the counter by the sink. She nodded and took the plate over there as well as the cup of coffee.

“Well, I'll let you get back to what you're doing,” she said. 

“Good,” he asked as he glanced at his watch before he frowned. It was nine in the evening; he had been there for nearly twelve hours. Then his frown deepened. Usually she left by five. “Why are you here so late?” he asked her.

“I had to do some autopsies and time ran away from me,” she said, tucking a loose strand of hair that had slipped out of her ponytail behind her ear. “I was so focused on doing the ones for the case that I...” She sighed. “I don't want to think about the case. I just want to go get pissed and forget.”

“You did all the autopsies?” he asked in surprise, looking at her. He knew there was a second pathologist on staff. Had they really made Molly autopsy all seven children? It had been hard enough to view photos of the first four victims and read the autopsy reports; to actually have to perform seven autopsies that were that gruesome would be hard on anyone, especially someone like her.

She nodded. “I vomited after the first one. Second one, too. I had to force myself to do the rest. I wanted to help catch the bastard who did it.”

“I'm sorry,” he said quietly, and while he never really apologized for anything he meant this particular apology. 

“Yeah, well, there's a bottle of whiskey with my name on it at home and I don't have to work tomorrow,” she said. “I plan on getting well and truly drunk tonight to see if I can sleep better.” She went back to the door and paused, her hand above the handle. “It wouldn't hurt to have company,” she said slowly.

He considered her invitation. He wasn't much of a drinker, not since his youth, but the images of the bodies were still swarming in his head and perhaps one night of drinking himself into a stupor would allow him to get some rest. Rest had been hard enough to come by on his best days; it had been even harder the last two weeks. He looked at her. “Let me get my coat,” he said quietly.

She looked slightly surprised as she nodded. He left the food and the coffee where she had set them; if he remembered in the morning, or the day after if he ended up hung over, he would throw it away then. He grabbed his suit jacket from the back of the second stool in the room and slipped it on, then got his coat from near the door. He slipped that on as well and followed Molly to the lift, then down to the ground floor and out of the hospital. It was raining, and both of them got wet as she tried to hail them a cab. He pulled his coat over his head and then hailed a cab for them when none would stop. They got in and she gave the driver her address.

He had to admit, he had been slightly curious about her. Nothing that would interfere with him using her to get what he wanted when it came to his experiments, not some sort of bone deep curiosity like he got with his cases, but some curiosity. It was like a mildly annoying itch that he could ignore most of the time, but tonight he would get to scratch that particular itch. Then it wouldn't bother him anymore. His curiosity would be sated and that would be the end of it. They remained silent as the cab traveled through London, each lost in their own thoughts. Soon enough it stopped, and Molly paid the driver. He looked around. This was actually quite a nice part of London, he realized. He had thought she would live somewhere shabbier, considering she had only recently started her post at St. Bart's. She probably had all sorts of bills to pay and things related to tuition for all her schooling.

She got out and he followed, and she went up to a home that he realized was going to be much like his own. “Do you have a roommate?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I inherited the place from my grandmother. One day I might get a roommate to have company, maybe. But right now I live alone.” She dug out her keys and unlocked the door. She opened it and turned on the light and he followed her inside. It seemed to be a large place, judging from what he could see of the layout. This was indeed a surprise. He'd thought she might rent a flat somewhere. Having her own home must have been nice going through school, depending on how long she'd had the place. “I got very lucky that I inherited the place just before I got done traveling, before university. I wasn't looking forward to living in the dorms.”

She made her way to the left and turned on more lights. Her sitting room was larger than his own, and much more well appointed. There was an entire wall filled with floor to ceiling bookshelves, and the books on them ranged from old leather bound volumes to newer paperbacks, interspersed with medical books. The rest of the sitting room was nice as well, with comfortable looking chairs, a sofa with a table in front of it and a rolltop desk in the corner. “I wasn't expecting this,” he admitted.

“Most people don't,” she said with a shrug. “Not that I bring a lot of people here. I don't really have friends. And I don't date. Too busy with school up until a few months ago.” She nodded towards the door. “I'll go get the whiskey and the glasses. Make yourself comfortable.”

He nodded and watched her leave the room. He began to explore, picking up a stray book here, looking at an opened letter there. She was taking longer than he had expected so he got to look around a bit more than he had thought he would. She was definitely not the woman he thought she was. She came back in about five minutes after he had finally sat down. “That doesn't look like whiskey,” he said, looking at the bottle with pale liquid.

“I think I drank the last of it earlier in the week. It was tequila or vodka, and I figured tequila would get us drunk faster.” She went over to the sofa he was sitting on and sat down next to him. She set the shot glasses down on the table before opening the bottle. “Hopefully you don't mind.”

“This is fine,” he said with a nod. “I don't like vodka much.”

“I only drink it mixed,” she said, pouring them each a shot. “I'm not much of a drinker usually, maybe a glass of wine every night, but I made an exception these last few weeks.” She set the bottle down and picked up one shot glass. He picked up the other and they both downed them quickly. He set his glass down and she filled it up before doing the same to her own.

“I can imagine doing all the autopsies was ghastly,” he said quietly, looking at his shot.

She nodded. “I don't think I was ready for it. I wanted to leave, wanted them to force the other pathologist to do it. But he's a bastard who used his seniority to make me do it.” She tipped her head back as she drank her shot. “He's on his way out, too. When the head of the hospital found out I had to do all the autopsies she was furious with him. He yelled back so he got suspended. He said something about quitting before his suspension was up.”

“He's a git as well,” Sherlock said as he drank his shot. “He asked too many questions. I didn't deal with him often, though.” He set his glass back down and she refilled it. “You're better.”

“That might be the nicest thing you've said to me since you met me,” she said as she refilled her own glass. “You aren't very nice to me sometimes.”

“It's my personality,” he said with a shrug. “I don't make it particularly easy for people to like me. Alone is better. Alone keeps me safe.”

“You aren't alone right now, though,” she pointed out. She took her drink and slammed it back as he did the same. “I get the feeling I'm going to regret drinking on an empty stomach, but right now I could care less.”

“If we're lucky we'll drink the whole bottle,” he said as he set his glass down again. “Anything to help forget.”

“Yeah,” she said as she refilled both of theirs again. They lapsed into silence as they drank. Truthfully he hadn't eaten since fairly early in the morning, and not that much. He was starting to feel the effects of the alcohol now, but this was good. This meant he would forget better, that he could get so drunk he'd black out. Even if he fell asleep on this sofa perhaps he could get some sleep tonight. If that was the case the hangover would be worth it. It was maybe four shots later that he stopped, and she looked at him. “Hitting too hard?” she asked.

He nodded slightly. “I need to take a break.”

“All right.”

He looked at her closely. “You have a remarkably high tolerance for someone who doesn't drink often.”

“I don't drink often _now_ ,” she said with a grin and a slight giggle. “I used to drink a lot my first three years of university. I was a bit of a party girl, I guess. Still a good student, but when the weekend came I liked to get very drunk.”

He grinned a bit at that. Yet another surprise about her. “I bet you were the life of the party.”

She shook her head. “Not really. That was my friends. I was the perpetual wallflower with drink after drink in my hand. My friends were all so busy trying to get someone to shag them that I knew they wouldn't take care of me if I got sloppily pissed. So I would drink a lot, but not too much. The last few weeks I drank a bit too much, but I can cope.”

“You surprise me,” he said after a moment.

“I surprise you? And you're admitting it?” she said with a look of surprise on her face. “Huh.”

He leaned in more towards her. “Don't tell anyone.”

She grinned at him. “Our secret,” she said as she leaned in more.

He looked at her intently. “I want to test a theory,” he said quietly.

“What theory?” she asked.

“I want to see what it would be like to kiss you. I mean, I'm not attracted to you, I don't think. My mind's a bit fuddled right now.”

“You wouldn't be the first man to kiss me who doesn't like me,” she said with a slight shrug. “You won't be the last, I imagine.”

“So you'll let me?”

“Let me have another shot first,” she said. “Or two.”

He held his glass out to her. “That sounds like a good idea.”

She poured them each a shot, and they drank them. Then she repeated her actions before she put her glass down. Then she took his glass from him and set it down as well. “All right, Sherlock,” she said when she was done. “You can kiss me now.”

He nodded and leaned in, pressing his lips against hers. It wasn't that he was inexperienced; he'd had his own wild days, and there had been women involved. But he had learned early on that most women only wanted a few things in life, and he either didn't have them to give or didn't want to give them at all. Molly would probably be the same, so if this was just a kiss, just an experiment to run, he could say he did it and that would be that. It would probably make her more amenable to him in the future to boot. But she surprised him by kissing him back. No other woman had kissed him like this; he knew with all those women that they wanted more from him than he was willing to give. Molly was kissing him like she knew this would be the only time she ever got to do this and she wanted it seared in her memory. And, despite it all, he found himself kissing her back in the same way.

After a moment he pulled away. “That was...interesting,” he said.

“If that was the only time I ever got to do that I wanted to make it count,” she said. “We should get back to drinking now.”

“Maybe we shouldn't,” he murmured. He reached over for her, pulled her closer until she was straddling his lap. She was higher up than him at this point, looking down at him. “If I kiss you again, for comparison's sake, it's just to run an experiment.”

“Of course,” she said with a nod.

“Let your hair down,” he said.

She moved herself back slightly so she didn't hit him in the face when she pulled her hair out of the ponytail she had it in. She let it fall down around her shoulders, and then she moved closer. “Anything else we need for the experiment?” she asked.

He shook his head. “No.” He moved a hand up to gently cup the back of her head as she leaned forward, beating him to the punch and kissing him this time. He tangled his fingers in her hair as the kiss got just as heated as the last one. This was new. This was surprising. This was interesting, he thought to himself as he could feel himself getting aroused. To think that Molly would cause this reaction in him was something he had never expected.

She pulled away when she needed to breathe. “You don't like me,” she said, catching her breath with a widening grin on her face. “And yet, you seem to really like me right now.”

“It's probably the alcohol,” he said, still not letting go of her hair. “Tomorrow I might regret it. You might regret it. But tonight I find I don't want to think about it.”

“Sherlock Holmes doesn't want to think about something?” she asked with a teasing tone in her voice.

“No, I do not,” he said.

“How far are you willing to take this experiment?” she asked, moving her hands to play with the lapel of his suit jacket.

“I'm not sure.”

“Then maybe we should have another drink and discuss the parameters of the experiment,” she said.

“I would rather have you,” he said.

“You must be _really_ drunk,” she said.

“Well, you could say no, or--” He didn't get to finish what he was saying before she kissed him again. He had to admit, this was actually not unpleasant, kissing her. Or rather, being kissed by her. He had thought it would be sloppy and messy, considering how much they had already had to drink. And certainly he hadn't expected to have the reaction he was having. He moved one hand away from her hair and ran it down her back, and she leveraged herself up slightly to deepen the kiss. He could feel his erection straining against his zipper when she finally pulled away from him. “Where is your bedroom?”

“Upstairs,” she said a bit breathlessly. “But there's a bedroom down here.”

“I don't think we should try and navigate stairs right now,” he said.

“I honestly wouldn't mind if we didn't move from here,” she said.

“More comfortable on a bed,” he pointed out.

“True.” She got off of him and stood up. He stood up as well and pulled her close. “We're going to regret this in the morning, aren't we?” she murmured.

“Probably,” he said. This time he was looking down at her. “But for tonight I want to take this experiment as far as you are willing to let me.”

“I'll let you do a lot,” she said quietly.

“Then let's make our way to that bedroom.” She put her arms around his neck and kissed him again, and he kept her pressed against him as she wound them around the table and back out into the hallway. She only stopped kissing him long enough to pull away to figure out where the doorknob to the bedroom was. She opened it and pulled him in. “No lights,” he said as he saw the room was bathed in moonlight.

“All right,” she said. She led him over to the bed, and then she reached up and pushed his suit jacket off his shoulders He shrugged out of it and let it fall to the floor before he retaliated by pulling her jumper up. He got it off of her and tossed it to the side. She began to work on the buttons of his shirt, her fingers fumbling with them slightly. Soon enough she got them undone, and he quickly undid his cuffs before pulling the shirt off. He then reached for the bottom hem of her shirt and pulled it up over her head before pulling her close to him again. “I would have thought we'd be having a lot more trouble with this,” she said with a slight giggle.

“If you had had buttons on your shirt I probably would have,” he said. “As it stands, you're still overdressed.”

“So are you,” she said, placing her hands on his chest. He was surprised that her hands were warm, and she curled her fingers slightly so he could feel the press of her nails against his skin.

“You might want to take your own bra off. You'll do it faster,” he said. She removed her hands and reached behind her, getting the bra undone in a matter of seconds. She pulled away to slide it off her arms, and then he pulled her flush against him, kissing her again. He was still surprised by all of this, by his reaction and the fact he was allowing himself to take things farther, that she was letting him. He probably shouldn't have been surprised by her reaction, though, he thought to himself as he began backing them towards the bed. When he felt the back of her knees hit it he steadied them so they didn't collapse on the bed in a heap. “Get on the bed,” he said when she pulled away to breathe. He found he was a bit winded as well.

She nodded and got on the bed, moving so her head was closer to the headboard. He got on the bed after her, covering her with his own body before kissing her again. In the morning he was almost a hundred percent sure he would regret this, that this had the potential of ruining anything he might have planned in making her amenable to doing what he asked without question, but right now he didn't care. He wanted to lose himself into the moment, and so did she, it seemed. She moved her hands up to his back and dug her nails into his shoulder blades and he shuddered slightly. “You liked that?” she asked as she pulled away from the kiss.

“Yes,” he said, leaning in to nip at her neck. She tilted her head back to give him better access, and when he bit down harder she gasped, a gasp that quickly turned into a moan. She retaliated by dragging her nails down his back, and he knew he couldn't take much more of that. He moved lower, nipping at her skin. If she was going to let him go as far as he wanted he could at least make sure she enjoyed the experience. “Lift your hips up,” he said, his lips hovering above her skin. She complied and he reached around for the zipper of her skirt. He was eternally grateful that it was summer and she had opted to keep her legs bare. He undid the zipper and began to pull the skirt down, and when he was done he could feel her move underneath him slightly to kick off her shoes. She was left in just her knickers at this point.

“Do you really want me right now?” she asked, leveraging herself up slightly.

“Yes,” he said with a slight nod. “Why?”

“I've never been wanted before. You're going to regret this in the morning, but right now you don't. I want to remember that.” She looked at him. “Continue to run the experiment.”

“Lift your hips up again,” he said. She did, and he pulled her knickers off of her, leaving her naked. Her admission made him think for a moment, and then he pulled away from her and got undressed himself. Before he moved back up to her he pressed a kiss to her inner thigh. He made his way up higher. This was not his favorite thing to do, but if they both agreed they were going to regret this in the morning he wanted to at least prove he could be attentive. When he got to the juncture of her thighs he pressed his lips to her. She gasped and moaned at the same time as he moved his tongue on her. He moved slightly and then inserted a finger into her.

“ _Please_ don't stop,” she said, writhing slightly beneath him as he inserted another finger.

“Wasn't planning on it,” he murmured as he pulled away briefly. He moved his fingers in and out of her, then inserted a third one. She was incredibly sensitive, he realized. He pulled away from her, letting his fingers continue to work, and then he used his thumb to press her clit. She came apart moments later, and he pulled his fingers out of her and covered her more, positioning himself. He thrust into her and then froze. No wonder she was so sensitive, he realized. “You were a virgin,” he said softly.

She nodded slightly. “Yes,” she said, moving slightly.

“Don't move,” he said, gritting his teeth. “I hurt you.”

“A little. But it could have hurt worse, I think.” She looked up at him. “Don't stop, Sherlock. All right?”

He nodded slowly, then pulled out of her before thrusting again. She spread herself a little wider and moved her hands to his back, digging her nails in. She was probably not causing him nearly as much pain as he had caused her, he realized, but it was too late now. He continued to move within her and soon enough he could feel her tighten around him. Dimly he was aware that she had gripped so hard she had drawn blood, but the pain and the pleasure collided with each other as he thrust into her one last time, driving himself deep as she convulsed around him. He came inside her as she gasped, and then it was over and they were still.

He had never taken someone's virginity before. All the women he had been with had been more experienced. That was the only reason he knew how to please a woman, because they had taught him. It hadn't been the best of times in his life, the wild years where he had not cared to use his mind and had tried to numb it with drink and drugs, but he was at least thankful they had taught him well, because this was not something he had expected from tonight. He supposed with the other surprises he should have expected this, though. She was going to remember this for the rest of her life. He might be an arse at the best of times and a complete bastard at the worst, but at least tonight he had done something that was going to be decent.

He pulled out of her and rolled over onto his side. “We should sleep now,” she said quietly.

“You don't want to talk?” he asked, surprised once again.

“No. And whatever questions you might have, don't ask them.”

He was quiet. This was not how it had been with anyone else, but he supposed that, perhaps, she was already starting to regret things now. He did, but he didn't. It had not been a bad shag, not by any means. Even with the surprise it had been one of the better ones he had had. And he would remember the kisses, how they had heated his blood and aroused him, how she had surprised him. But if she didn't want to talk about it, didn't want to think about it, he could pretend in the morning that he didn't remember. If that was what she wanted, he could do the same.

He rolled over to his other side and looked at her, seeing she was already asleep, or at least was pretending she was. He hesitated a moment, then looked around for a blanket to pull over her. Finding one, he did that, then began to get dressed. It would be best for both of them if he was not here when she woke up, he thought. When he was finished, he gave her one last glance, then opened the door and let himself out into the hallway, and finally let himself out of her home. Yes, this was in everyone's best interest, he thought as he hailed himself a cab. Hopefully things would not change much for them because of all of this.


	2. Chapter 2

As far as he could tell, to her it had never happened. Yes, there were attempts on her end to look nice, and vague attempts to flirt, but it was no more than it had been before. She acted as though not a damn thing had happened that night, that she hadn't willingly given up her virginity to him. He didn't make an attempt to talk about it, either, because if she was going to act like it didn't happen then he could do the same. He could convince himself it had meant nothing, that it hadn't been something that he had actually enjoyed. He could go back to being an absolute arse towards her if that was what she wanted. It was easier that way anyway. He might have been willing to let that wall around his heart break down a bit after that night, but Molly's reaction had been enough to shore it up and then add some more to it. He was never going to get close to anyone again.

And then John came into his life. John began to chip away at that wall, bit by bit. John tried harder than everyone else, but he was fought every step of the way until he just began to give up and stopped fighting John all the time. It wasn't so bad to let his guard down sometimes, and John knew that it was a rare occurrence so he didn't push for it all the time, only when they were alone. He wouldn't admit it, but being rebuffed by Molly had hurt. Yes, him slinking out afterward had probably been stupid and cowardly, but she had immediately acted like she regretted the course of action things had taken that evening and he hadn't wanted to add insult to injury by being there when she woke up. Or at least that was what he told himself. He would hold to that version of events until his dying breath.

He kept an ear open for things involving Molly, though. There was a lot of gossip around the hospital if one really listened to it. Most people would get very quiet when he entered the room, but not all. He had known about all the single dates that went nowhere when it came to her, the few men that actually made it to a night of intimacy with her. He had known she had an actual boyfriend for a month between him and Jim from IT, but he was only using her for money. Sherlock had checked him out and had been tempted to say something to her but he assumed she of all people would not welcome the interference, so he stayed quiet. As it stood, though, he knew all about Jim from IT before she paraded him in his lab.

He should have investigated Jim from IT as well, he realized after the night at the pool. No one, not even John, would ever get him to admit he actually cared about Molly just a little bit, but he felt the need to protect her from James Moriarty. That was trouble on a level she didn't need, a threat she wouldn't be able to handle on her own. He decided she needed to know the truth, and he was going to be the one to tell her. It was nearly two in the morning before he went to her home. He had gotten John back home and settled in around twelve-thirty and an hour later John had fallen asleep on the sofa in the sitting room with a half-empty bottle of whiskey in front of him. Ever since the night with Molly he had avoided alcohol because it just led to a mess. There was no point in getting pissed and letting anyone get close. He was never making that mistake again.

He made his way to her home and looked at the door. He knocked on the door, not even sure if she was awake. He knocked more insistently about three minutes later when he didn't get an answer. Finally a window opened up above him. He looked up and saw Molly sticking her head out. “Sherlock? It's two in the bloody morning. What do you want?” She punctuated her question with a yawn. “I'm trying to sleep.”

“I need to talk to you,” he said.

“Right now?” she asked, and he could see she had raised an eyebrow.

He nodded. “Yes. It's important.”

She hung her head slightly before pinching the bridge of her nose. “If I talk to you will you leave and let me go back to sleep?”

He almost wanted to make a remark that once again he wouldn't be spending the night but he bit his tongue. They were pretending that night didn't happen. If she didn't say anything than neither would he. He simply nodded again. “As soon as I'm done I'll leave.”

She looked like she was debating something, and he reasoned it could be any number of things, and finally she sighed. “I'll be down in a few minutes. Let me change into something warmer.” She shut the window and he waited as patiently as he could for her to open the door. Finally after a few minutes he heard padding footsteps towards the door, then he heard a lock being turned The door opened and he was face to face with Molly. She was wearing a camisole top and pyjama pants with a robe over all of it and her hair was down around her shoulders. It looked messy and he was hit with the memory of having his fingers curled in it as she kissed him. He stamped down that memory as quickly as he could. “Do you want to come in?” she asked.

He nodded. “This is a conversation best had in private.”

“And at two in the morning, apparently,” she said with a yawn as she moved out of the way so he could come in. She made her way to the sitting room and he cast a quick glance to the right at the bedroom that was there before following her to the room. “Do you want tea?”

“Only if you want some.”

“I'd have something stronger but I don't have anything in the house,” she said as she turned on the light in the sitting room. The first thing he noticed was that she had rearranged everything. The second thing he noticed was the sofa was gone, replaced with a different one. He wondered at that for a moment before she nodded to the two chairs in the room. She sat down in one of them, pulling her feet up under her and yawning again. “So what's so important you needed to show up at two in the morning to tell me?”

“Jim from IT isn't who he seems,” he said slowly.

She hung her head slightly. “Sherlock, not that again. You already made your feelings on that subject known.”

“He's a criminal mastermind named James Moriarty,” Sherlock said, trying not to get irritated. She napped her head up and looked at him sharply. “I'm actually worried about you.”

“Worried? About me? That's new.” She looked at him intently, studying him for a long while. He stared back, not wavering. Finally she stopped studying him so hard. “You're not lying, are you?” she asked quietly after a few minutes.

“No, I'm not. He kidnapped John last night and then revealed himself to be the man behind the bombs on people. He put one on John.” Her eyes widened slightly. “We may not be close, but you needed to know, for your own safety. He may still come after you.”

“I doubt it,” she said.

“Why?”

“I just do,” she said, waving her hand. “Look, I'm glad you told me. Don't think I'm not. But don't you think this could have waited until tomorrow? No one's ever in my office. You could have told me there.”

He looked at her, and he knew his jaw was hanging down slightly. He made it a point to let her know what was going on so she could protect herself, he had actually admitted in a rather roundabout way that he actually cared enough about her to warn her of a threat, and she was dismissive? She certainly wasn't _acting_ like she was grateful he told her. “I'm sorry I disturbed you,” he said coldly as he stood. Then he turned to leave. “I can see myself out.”

“Wait,” she said with a sigh. He stilled in his movements. “He's done with me. Whatever point it was he wanted to prove he did when I took him to your lab. He bolted when he was done. I don't think I'm in any danger because he doesn't have a use for me anymore. I think he was just trying to get to you, and I was too blind to see it.” She paused for a moment. “And I'm sorry if I seem to be callous about it. I just got done crying myself to sleep a few hours ago.”

He turned and looked at her. “Over him?”

“Yes, over him. Yet another failed relationship in my repertoire. At least this time there was a valid reason. I mean, if being used is a valid enough reason for a guy to drop you like a hot rock..” She looked up at him. “I won't bore you with the details about him and I. You don't want to hear them anyway. But if you want some tea, I can make some and you can talk. You probably have a lot on your mind to come by here at two in the morning. Or at least I think you might.”

“Why would you think I need to talk?” he asked quietly.

She sighed again. “Never mind, Sherlock. Forget I made the suggestion.”

“That wasn't what I meant,” he said slowly.

“It's okay. I understand. You don't like having feelings. You certainly wouldn't want to talk about them.”

“Stop putting words in my mouth, Molly,” he said tersely. He gave her a look that was almost a glare and she blinked. “Yes, it is true I do not let emotions rule my actions, and yes, I can be a callous arrogant arse most of the time and that's probably how you're always going to see me, but if you truly want to offer me tea I won't say no. It's not as though you or I are going to sleep any time soon.” He didn't add anything about how this time at least it wasn't an alcoholic drink. That would have been pushing things too far with her tonight, and if she was going to offer him tea he didn't really want to be booted out because he couldn't keep his mouth shut. He would do his best to keep comments on that night to himself.

She nodded slowly. “Let me go set it up, then.” she said quietly, standing up. She turned and went back into the room where she had gone all that time ago to get the alcohol. After a moment he went after her because once again curiosity gnawed at him. He vaguely wondered if he would be surprised by her again. Her kitchen was just on the other side of the door, and he had to admit that yes, he was surprised. This looked like a homey version of a restaurant kitchen. There was top of the line everything, but it still looked comfortable. It looked as though it was used often and that she was a much more avid cook than he would have thought. “You didn't have to come in here,” she said as she put the kettle on the stove.

“Consider me curious,” he murmured, looking at the island in the center of the kitchen, and then moving his gaze around. The only thing missing in the area was a place to sit and eat, though he supposed there was a dining room somewhere else in this home that he just couldn't see right now.

“You just want to snoop,” she said, though he could see she had a faint grin on her face. “Go ahead, look around.”

He did just that. Once again, she managed to surprise him. “You like to cook,” he said as he opened her refrigerator and saw the plastic containers in there.

“I can halve any recipe so it only makes two servings, which is one for dinner and another for lunch the next day if I don't feel like cafeteria food,” she said, going to a cabinet and pulling down a canister of tea. “I'd cook for people, but I don't invite people over.” He happened to glance at her as she said that and he could have sworn she wanted to add something along the lines of “anymore” or “after you” to that sentence.

“I see,” he said with a nod. He moved around the kitchen. The knives were top quality, and so were the pots hanging from a rack above the island she was standing next to. John would kill for a kitchen like this, he realized. Their own kitchen seemed so shabby right now, not that she had ever been there to compare. “Did you upgrade all the appliances and such?”

She nodded. “When my father died he left me a decent sum of money. I spent it on certain things to improve this place. Remodeling the kitchen was the first thing I did. I love to cook, and I wanted the best of the best. All of this is a few years old, but it was top quality when I bought it and I take good care of it.”

“This looks as though you spend a lot of time in here,” he said as he stopped, looking at her from across the island.

“I do,” she said with a nod.

He looked at her, suddenly unsure of what else to say. They were dancing around what had happened the last time he was there, the night that they had been intimate. She was still going to pretend it hadn't happened, even though he got the feeling she wanted to say more. He got the feeling she wanted to say a lot more on the subject, and if he was truthful with himself there was a lot he wanted to say to her about it. That he was actually sorry he had left afterward, that the reason he was being difficult and prickly with her was because it was the only way he could deal with what he viewed as her rejection of him, that he honestly wished things had gone differently. But these thoughts scared him because they were real emotions, real signs he had let himself care, and he had vowed not to care after that night. He didn't want to get hurt again. He hated it when they came to the forefront, when a stray thought would cross his mind when he was alone. He was never going to be able to share any of those thoughts with her, so he just shoved them back into a dark corner of his mind and hoped they stayed away for a time. He was lucky most of the time, but he knew when this evening was over he would ruminate over them all over again.

They stayed in silence until the kettle began to whistle, and she pulled it off the stove and poured the water into the teapot she had set up with the tea. There would be the need to let it steep, and that meant more time that he would wrestle with himself as to what he wanted to say to her and what he needed to avoid. But she saved him from having to think with a simple question. “How do you take your tea?” she asked.

“With sugar,” he said. He watched her go to another cabinet and pull down a small ceramic jar with a top to it. He recognized it had the same pattern as the teapot and the cups and saucers that were on the island. She set it next to the teapot and then went and got a small spoon and set that next to the jar. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome,” she said quietly before they lapsed back into silence.

This was all a really bad idea, he thought to himself the longer they were quiet. The temptation to say something was there, and it was strong. She wouldn't want that, though, or she would have broached the subject herself. “Molly...” he said after a moment.

“Yes?” she asked, not looking at him.

He sighed. There was no point in bringing it up now. She did not look like she was in the mood to have this particular conversation, even if that was what he wanted. If they were ever going to have this conversation he did not want it to happen at a time where it would have the worst possible outcome. “It's not important,” he said finally. “I'm thinking it might be best if I leave now. I apologize for making you go through all the trouble of setting up the tea.”

She looked up, biting her lip slightly. It looked as though she was debating something, and then she took the small jar and went back to the cabinet, opening the door and putting the jar back on the shelf. “I'll see you out,” she said quietly.

He made his way back out to the sitting room and he could hear her following. He made it all the way to the front door before he spoke again. “I'm sorry about Moriarty,” he said finally.

“It just proves I have rotten taste in men,” she said with a sad smile.

His defenses went back up in an instant. If this was a hit to his pride then it had hit at the core. But he wouldn't let her see. He'd go home and stew about it on his own. “It probably does,” he said quietly, and he saw a pained expression cross her face for a moment, and then it was gone. He opened the door. “Good night, Molly.”

“Good night, Sherlock,” she said as he stepped outside. He took a few steps towards the curb and then stopped as she shut the door behind him, and only waited to move again once he heard the lock click in place. And without a doubt, he thought to himself as he began to walk towards somewhere he could find a cab, John's half-empty bottle of whiskey would be completely empty by the time John woke up the next morning. Right now he didn't want to think about it all because it was messy and he didn't need any more messes in his life at the moment, but at least if he was in a drunken stupor he might actually sleep tonight. Because if he was truthful with himself he was getting very tired of this whole dance with Molly, but he wasn't going to let himself get hurt again, and that only meant he needed to continue this dance until she said something. It was a vicious cycle, and he hated every moment of it.


	3. Chapter 3

Life moved on, and the dance continued. The Christmas party had been the first deviation after his second visit to her home, when he had put the cold, callous, arrogant consulting detective part of his personality aside for a moment and given Molly what was a sincere and heartfelt apology. Just like the other two in her home it wasn't the apology he should have given her, but it was a start. She had been surprised by his gesture of a kiss on the cheek, and she might have said more if Irene hadn't texted him at that moment. He swore the woman was spying on him that night, and if he hadn't been trying to help her fake her death by lying to everyone he would have found her and throttled her for the stunt. And he knew without a doubt that the minute he had said he could identify the woman with the bashed in face without seeing her face that Molly was going to take issue with that. Not that she had any right; she had obviously disregarded what had happened between them, so if he _was_ intimate with another woman it was none of her business. Or at least that was what he told himself.

And then the Adler affair was all over. Dartmoor and Baskerville happened next, and then, when he thought things might be normal aside from the increased media presence Moriarty made his game known, took it to another level. He had been surprised by her at the lab, when she said she could see him look sad when John wasn't looking. After everything, after all the avoidance of what happened between them, he was surprised she had paid attention that closely. He had paid close attention to her, but he had not thought it went both ways. He should have known better. She was always surprising him, it seemed.

And then he asked for her help and she gladly gave it. He hadn't expected her to, but she had. When she had told him how to fake his death and stay alive in the process there was a moment afterward where he wanted to tell her all the thoughts that rattled in his head that he kept trying to push away. He _needed_ to tell her, but there wasn't enough time. Moriarty was making his final push, moving the chess pieces that were Sherlock and his friends into position so that he could declare checkmate, and then he had to fall. There was no other way to save his friends.

Mycroft had known before anyone had to tell him. Mycroft had probably bugged his phone ages ago and had known the minute Moriarty contacted him and had figured out the only possible outcome. When he was wheeled into the morgue his brother was there, and so was Molly. He was surprised he had survived with as few injuries as he had, to be quite honest; he had thought he was going to break every bone in his body. Molly had checked him over, taken care of the injuries she could, and sent him off with his brother. From that point on they all had to pretend he was dead, or else it all could come apart. He hated leaving her without talking to her first. If he didn't come back there would be so much left unsaid. He had to just hope he made it back and there would be a time and a place to finally have that conversation when it was all finished.

He knew her address. Even though he had only been there twice he had had it memorized, and he had sent her blank postcards whenever he could. He lost count of how many he had sent the last two years, he realized as he came back to London. At least one a week for two years, so roughly a hundred and four at the very least. Possibly more than that, but two years was a long time to be away, a long time to try and tell one person he was all right without saying a word to them. He wondered what she had done with all of them, whether she had kept them or tossed them out, whether she knew that she was the only one to receive them or whether she supposed others got them as well. He was about to find out, he thought as he paused before approaching her home for the third time in his life.

Mycroft was the only person who knew for sure that it was over, that everyone was safe. Molly might know now, if Mycroft had thought to tell her, but he wouldn't know until he actually knocked and saw her face to face. He finally put his knuckles to the wooden door and knocked. It took a few moments, but the door opened and Molly stared at him with a look of shock on her face. So. Mycroft hadn't told her. He opened his mouth to say something but before he could say a word she threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around him and hugging him. He was surprised, but after a moment he hugged her back. He had not expected this type of welcome, even though she had helped him. He had expected the shock, yes, but certainly not the warm welcome he was receiving from her. It was nice, and it made him feel that maybe all the hell and headache had been worth it, and it made him hope everyone's reactions would be this welcoming. “Hello, Molly,” he said quietly, shutting his eyes and taking a moment to enjoy this even though they were standing out in the cold and snow.

“You're okay,” she said just as quietly, and when she pulled away the changes in her appearance became noticeable. Her hair was shorter now, almost to her chin, and it looked less frizzy. She looked as though she had updated her wardrobe as well, since the clothing she was in appeared more high end than what she had worn before. But the biggest change was the look on her face when she saw him, the wide smile. She had not smiled at him so widely since the first night he had been there, when she had kissed him. And then she snapped out of it. “Oh my God, you must be bloody freezing right now. Come in. I'm so sorry to leave you out here in the snow.”

“It's all right,” he said, but he came in when she moved out of the way. She shut the door behind him and he could smell something delectable emanating from the kitchen area as he took off his coat. It made him realize he hadn't eaten in nearly twenty hours. He had been so intent on coming home that he had forgotten. His stomach growled and he caught the grin on Molly's face soften slightly. “It's been a long while since I've eaten.”

“I made stew, if you want some,” she said. “That I usually make in large batches so I can freeze it later. I definitely have enough to give you a few bowls, if you need them. You felt so skinny when I hugged you.”

“I tried to take care of myself. I must not have done as good a job as I thought,” he said as they made their way to the sitting room. He made his way in and then stopped as he glanced at the walls. There were at least forty postcards framed and up on the walls, and there was a stack of them on the table, as though she had been just recently looking at them. There were also a stack of frames next to the postcards. He recognized quite a few of them. They had all been ones he had sent to her. “You kept them,” he said quietly.

“All one hundred and thirty-seven,” she said. “I decided I was going to use my favorites to decorate this room. I'm still deciding which ones I want to put up next.”

He went over to the table and picked one up at random. It was a postcard from California, of the Golden Gate Bridge. He remembered this one was a more recent postcard. He had spent two weeks in California, going up the coastline to take care of as many threats as he could before he'd moved on to Seattle and then Vancouver. He had never spent more than two or three nights in the same city because there was always a new person to bring down somewhere else. Moriarty's network had been vast, bigger than either he or his brother had imagined, but most of it was in a shambles and so he had been able to return home. He set it back down and looked at the wall covered in postcards. “You have no idea what this means to me,” he said quietly.

“I probably don't, but you can tell me over supper,” she said. She nodded towards the kitchen. “I got stools for the island so we can eat in the kitchen.”

He followed her into the kitchen and she went straight to the stove and opened the lid of the pot on it. Then she went to the island and picked up a ladle before going to a cabinet and pulling down a bowl. She went back to the pot and ladled some stew into the bowl and then brought it to where he had seated himself. “Even though I turned the heat off from under it it's still really hot,” she said. “Do you want some bread with it?”

He nodded. “Thank you,” he said.

“It's not a problem,” she replied. She pulled down a cutting board from the rack above them, then went to a bread box and pulled out a bag containing a loaf of sheepherder's bread. She took it to the cutting board and cut off a few slices. “Do you want butter on them?”

“This is fine. Thank you,” he replied. She went back to the cabinet and got a plate and another bowl, and put the bread on the plate, placing it next to his bowl. Then she went back to the stew and ladled out another bowl as he started to eat. It had been so long since he had homemade food that this was heavenly. He ate quickly but not so quickly as to make himself sick, and for the moment he ignored Molly, who had sat down next to him. When he was almost done he looked at her bowl. “You aren't eating,” he said with a frown.

She chuckled. “I already ate some earlier. This is your second helping. I figured I would let it cool a bit while you ate the first one.”

“You are being too good to me,” he said, taking the last bite from that bowl.

“But I haven't been at times,” she said quietly as she pushed the second bowl towards him. He looked at her, raising an eyebrow. “It's been just over five years since we met, and we don't talk about what happened after that case. And it's not because I wanted to forget it happened, but because I was scared of what might happen next. I figured it would be better if I pretended it hadn't happened.”

He looked at the second bowl, not taking a bite. “It should have gone differently,” he said quietly.

“Maybe. Maybe I shouldn't have invited you over. Maybe I shouldn't have let you kiss me. Maybe we shouldn't have let it escalate. Maybe I shouldn't have shut you out. Maybe you shouldn't have left. But it happened, and then we both pretended it hadn't happened, and I've hated that. We should have talked about it.”

“Do you want to talk about it now?” he asked.

She gave him a small smile. “Right now I want you to eat. You felt like skin and bones under that coat. We can talk later.” She pushed the bowl forward a little more. “Let me know if you still want a third helping when you're done with that one.”

He nodded and went back to eating, and Molly began filling him in on the little things that had happened in the two years he was gone. Some of it he knew, such as John's engagement to a woman named Mary Morstan and Mrs. Hudson's health issues and Lestrade's quest to prove that he wasn't a fraud. Mycroft had filled him in most of those things over the last two years, but it was nice to hear someone else give the little details Mycroft hadn't thought were important. He also knew Molly had been in a fairly serious relationship for eight months but it had fallen apart when her boyfriend proposed six months ago. He would ask her about that later, as she did not seem to be bringing it up to him now.

He had taken up her offer on the third bowl of stew and made it halfway through it before he felt like he was going to burst. He pushed it away from him and looked at Molly, who was coming over with two cups of tea. “I don't think I can eat any more,” he said. “Thank you for the good food, though.”

“Do you need to leave soon?” she asked, setting one of the cups in front of him. “I mean, are you planning on telling anyone else you're home tonight?”

He shook his head. “Mycroft told me to tell everyone else tomorrow. I already met with him this afternoon so he's going to try and figure out a way I can break it to everyone gently. Since you knew the truth I felt you deserved to know tonight. I knew if anyone would want to know straight away it would be you.”

“Well, thank you for that,” she said with a smile as she sat down next to him again.

He looked at her closely for a moment. “You haven't told me much of what's happened to you over the last two years.”

“There isn't much to tell,” she said, looking at her cup of tea. “I left the hospital. I just couldn't keep doing it. I'm actually a biology teacher at one of the local schools now. I enjoy it a lot more. I made some new friends, people who weren't involved in everything in my old life. I'm actually quite a bit more social these days. I decided to stop hiding so much, so I made a few changes in clothes and a few personality changes as well.” Then she turned to him, a grin on her face. “But I'm fairly sure you know all about it, just like you know I refused my last boyfriend's marriage proposal six months ago. Your brother had to have told you about what was going on with me.”

“Mycroft did tell me some of that, but not all of it,” he said slowly as he nodded. “Why did you refuse his proposal?”

“Two reasons,” she said, looking back at her cup of tea. “The first was that he was convinced he could direct my life better than I could. My taste in men is still fairly terrible, I suppose. He was charming at first, and he made me feel special, but that was just his way of starting to try and control me. I hadn't had a whole lot of relationships over the years, really. I fell for his plans hook, line and sinker. He was abusive but I didn't see it for a long while.” Her face got a grim set for a moment. “He raised his hand to me when I said that I wouldn't marry him. If we hadn't been in public I think he might have hit me. As it stood, he was quite upset, but in all honesty it was the best decision I had made regarding the entire relationship. Well, that and not letting him move in here, and not moving in with him. It was easier to extricate myself from the whole mess once I realized what he was about.”

Sherlock felt a surge of anger at this man he had never met. Of all the people he knew, Molly deserved better. She deserved so much better than a man who didn't see that the way she was was just fine. Hell, she probably deserved better than him, if he wanted to be honest about things. He looked at the tea she had given him for a moment, then turned to her. “Did he try and retaliate?”

She shook her head. “Mycroft very blatantly let him know if he tried to retaliate in any way he would end up dead and no one would mourn his loss,” she said with a slight grin. “He told me he had done it when I realized my ex hadn't tried to hurt me. I owe your brother for that. I think it would have gone far worse if Mycroft hadn't stepped in. For all we know I'd be dead now. He had been quite livid when I said no. Having a threat issued from a man with black ops connections was more effective than anything I could have said or done.”

He was surprised at how matter-of-factly she talked about the fact the man could have killed her. It was as though she had accepted just how badly it all could have gone, but it was still very hard to listen to. Even though Mycroft had probably issued the best threat to his person that anyone could ask for he really wanted to pay the man a visit and add his own threat, but it probably wasn't necessary at this point. Still, the urge was strong. “When did you know you should end it?” he asked.

“My ex-boyfriend wanted me to throw away the postcards. He would get this look on his face every time I got one, like he wanted to rip it to shreds. He tried to rip one in half but I stopped him. He was apologetic about it afterward, and he proposed a few days later, but then I knew I had to leave him.”

He was quiet for a moment as he took a sip of his tea. “What was the second reason?”

“He wasn't you,” she said quietly. He looked at her sharply. “Even after all these years, after the way we treated each other after that night, I've still fancied you. I mean, I pushed you away before we could even see if anything might happen. I shouldn't have been so scared. Maybe I would have gotten hurt, maybe not, but since that night I knew that I still wanted you rather than any other bloke I could end up with, even as we were treating each other the way we were.” She looked at him. “For a little while that night you let your guard down. You actually cared, I think. That little glimpse, that's what I wanted again. I looked for it with other men and I never found it. And then later, right before you had to fake your death, I saw it again. You treated me like you needed me. That was how it had felt that night.”

“I did need you the day at the hospital. But you didn't need to help me. You could have let me actually die up on that roof.”

“I couldn't do that,” she said, shaking her head. “If you had died and I had let you I never would have forgiven myself. I'd have hated the very sight of myself. But you survived and you left and I had to act like you were dead, just like the rest of the world thought. And even though I had a glimmer of hope because I knew the truth I didn't know if you'd ever come back, or what you would be like if you were able to return, so I tried to move on.” She took a sip of her tea. “I thought my ex would have been a good guy. But he wasn't, and it took me a while to see that. He was trying to make me choose between him and you. I chose you. I'm probably always going to choose you.”

“Why?” he asked quietly.

“Because deep down you really are a good man. And this whole thing between us was all my fault. The night you came to tell me about Moriarty, there was so much I wanted to say. And I could see you wanted to say something too. We could have talked then and things could have been different. Maybe they would have been better, maybe worse. But we spent too long pretending it didn't happen and killing the chance that anything else might.” She looked back at her tea. “I hurt you, didn't I? That night? When I pushed you away?”

“Yes,” he said. “But I hurt you, too. Not just physically. I shouldn't have left.”

“I know why you did it. I understand And I think if you had stayed it would have gone very differently, and truthfully I don't know if it would have gone well. Not if we'd both regretted it in the morning.” She turned to him and gave him a smile. “Did you regret it? Not what happened after, but us being intimate?”

He shook his head. “No, I did not.”

“I didn't regret it either. I'm glad it was you that night.” She relaxed slightly, as though his admission cleared some doubt from her mind. “While you were gone, did you think about that night?”

“Often,” he replied. And he had. Even before he was gone, he had replayed the events of that night when he was alone with his thoughts. But when he was gone it was something he had thought about any time he thought of her. He had always wondered if things were different, if they could actually talk about it, if she might give him another chance to do things differently a second time. And most of the time immediately afterward he found himself doubting that he would ever get another chance. But right now, at this moment, he had a small amount of hope that he just might. It would not cost him anything to tell her the truth. “I often wondered if I would ever get the chance to see if it felt the same a second time. If you would let me try again.”

Her eyes widened slightly. “Really?”

He nodded. “You were right. There was so much I wanted to say, not just that second night I came here but other times. The Christmas party, for example. Or the day at the hospital when you patched me up before I had to leave. And I didn't, and I regret it.” She moved her hand slightly, then hesitantly put it over Sherlock's, squeezing gently. He turned his hand over so their palms were pressed together and he grasped her hand more tightly. “Am I able to have a second chance?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said quietly, looking at him. “Of course.” He let go of her hand and got off the stool, moving closer to her. He moved a hand up to touch her cheek gently and then he leaned in and kissed her. She kissed him back, and there was something about this kiss that was different than the others ones they had shared. He was trying to show her what he wasn't sure he could put into words. She seemed to understand when she pulled away and gave him a wide smile. “I don't think I've had anyone kiss me as well as you do,” she said as she stood up.

“Considering we were pissed the first time I'll take that as a compliment,” he said with a slight chuckle.

She laughed as well, then wound her arms around his neck. “I would like to kiss you again, if that's all right. For comparison's sake.”

“I would be willing to run that experiment,” he said with a nod. This time she leaned in and kissed him, and as the kiss deepened he pulled her close against him, relishing the entire experience. He found that indeed, there was something there. Something he should have fought for all those years ago. They only pulled apart when they needed to breathe. “There hasn't been anyone since you,” he murmured, resting his forehead against hers.

“I hadn't thought so,” she said, moving her fingers so they brushed the back of his neck. “I wasn't sure, after the woman in the morgue, but I had hoped there wasn't. And I know you know there were more men for me. I hope you don't think less of me for that.”

“No, I don't. I honestly don't think I could ever think less of you for that.” He pulled away from her for a moment. She gave him a confused look, but then he offered her his hand. She took it and he moved her away from the stools. “I propose we adjourn to the same place we went to last time,”

“I could do that,” she said with a wider grin. Once they were away from the stools her pulled her close again and kissed her a third time. She clung to him as she kissed him back and he began moving them out of the kitchen and through the sitting room without breaking the kiss. They almost made it to the door of the sitting room, but when he tried to maneuver her out of the room he ended up slamming her back into the wall. She pulled him as close as she could get, deepening the kiss. They were so close to the bedroom but the need was so great that he didn't think they could make it there. 

“We are close to the bedroom, you know,” he said as she frantically pulled his shirt up from the waistband of his pants.

“I know. I can't wait,” she said as he pulled away so she could. He gave her a low chuckle at that. Her hands were shaking as she began to unbutton his shirt, and finally he put his hands over hers and took over the job. He got it undone and then did the cuffs while she pulled her shirt over her head. He pulled her close against him to get her bra undone, and then she moved away to get it off her chest.

She was wearing a skirt again so he moved his hands lower and pulled her knickers down to her knees and she shimmied out of them, kicking them to the side once they got down to her ankles. She frantically started to undo the belt buckle on his pants and then began to work on the button and zipper. She pushed his pants down and he stepped out of them when they got low enough. She pushed down at his underwear and once his erection was free she put her hand around it. He groaned at her touch as she slid her hand down. “You are more experienced,” he said between gritted teeth.

“Bolder, too,” she said, moving her hand back up and down.

“If you aren't careful...” he began.

“I know,” she said with a grin. He retaliated by kissing her again, pressing her into the wall more. Then he pulled away and nipped at her neck. When he bit her harder she moaned and let go of him, reaching for his shoulders and digging her nails in. He lifted her up and she locked her legs around his waist, and he positioned himself and thrust into her. She gasped and dug her nails into his shoulder more as he pulled out and thrust again. He could feel her begin to tighten around him and so he reached between them and pressed her clit. “Sherlock!” she managed to gasp out as she felt a powerful orgasm hit her. That was all he needed to join her, and he thrust into her one last time as he came. When he was done the two of them looked at each other, both of them out of breath. “That was incredible,” she said, wide grin on her face.

“I take it that was your first time for that?” he asked as she unlocked her legs from around his waist.

She nodded. “Yes. You're another first in that department.”

“Good.”

He leaned in and kissed her softly, and she framed his face and kissed him back. When they pulled apart he righted himself, then knelt down and picked her up. “Sherlock! What are you doing?”

“What I should have done five years ago,” he said. “Going to sleep next to you and being here in the morning.”

She looked at him and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Don't be surprised if I get up once you go to sleep to put dinner away.”

“That's fine, as long as you're next to me when I wake up,” he said. He got the sitting room door open, then took her out into the hallway to the other bedroom and opened that door too. He went into the darkened room and set her down on the bed. The same quilt she had had in the room five years ago was on the bed, and he got it and got into bed next to her, pulling it over them. They were facing each other, and he reached up to touch her hair. “I think I'm going to miss tangling my fingers in your hair,” he murmured.

She laughed. “It actually used to be shorter. This is my last disastrous haircut grown out and restyled. I needed a change, after everything. And it's still long enough, I think.”

“You do look very nice, though,” he said with a smile. “I probably should have told you that when I got here.”

“It's all right,” she said before leaning in and kissing him softly He kissed her back before she pulled away again, reaching up to touch his hair, which was now a light shade of brown and straight. “I miss the dark curly hair on you.”

“Eventually it will grow back,” he said. “I was too well known the way I looked before.”

“I'll get used to it,” she said. She trailed her hand down his cheek, cupping it gently. He shut his eyes for a moment, savoring her touch. “You know, I was always glad you were my first. Even when I wanted to pretend it hadn't happened. Because I didn't think you would ever want me like that, and you did.”

“I'm glad I was as well,” he said, opening his eyes to look at her intently.

“I really missed you,” she said quietly.

“I missed you, too,” he murmured.

“Welcome home, Sherlock,” she whispered before kissing him again. When they were done she rolled over to her other side and pressed her back against his chest. He put an arm around her waist and kept her close, even as sleep started to overtake him. His last waking thought was that he should have done this a long time ago, but he was glad she was giving him a second chance now.


End file.
